


Those Who Can’t

by Sanguineheroine



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Bottom John, Can't Teach A Yard Dog New Tricks, Exhibitionism, Handcuffs, Kink Meme, M/M, Rope Bondage, Scotland Yard, Semi-Public Sex, Slash, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 13:27:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1859688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanguineheroine/pseuds/Sanguineheroine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which our Consulting Detective turns Consulting Criminal and the good Doctor helpfully volunteers as rope-bound Damsel in Distress.  Hopkins is incompetent, Lestrade is frustrated, Holmes is wickedly dominant and Watson is charmingly submissive.  No conjuring occurs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Who Can’t

**Author's Note:**

> Title is drawn from HL Menken _“Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.”_

“Holmes,” I grumble, pulling at my bindings, “Are you sure this is entirely necessary? I feel like I’m in a bloody conjurer’s show.” Holmes snorts indignantly and finishes laying out his kit before replying.

“Alas, my dear fellow, I appear to have left my topper at home. Sadly we shall have to continue with the lesson, rather than instigate any impromptu follies.” After a final check of the ropes at my wrists and ankles he turns to Inspector Lestrade, who has been watching our preparation with no small amusement, and gives him a curt nod. Lestrade opens his office door and four policemen, led by a smiling Stanley Hopkins, spill in and at Lestrade’s instruction, arrange themselves behind his desk.

When Lestrade moves away from behind the door to reveal the _tableaux_ that Holmes has prepared there is a chorus of muffled laughter. Holmes sighs, and waits with a raised eyebrow for the Inspector to bring his men to order.

“I’m sorry, Mr Holmes,” he says with a poorly disguised smile, “I think the lads rather hoped that _you_ might be the one tied up.”

“Until Scotland Yard’s _lads_ have proven themselves capable of untying me, I have no intention of allowing myself to be restrained in any such manner.” Holmes says with a thin smile. Fortunately for all present, I am very effectively gagged and the smile that would have revealed Holmes for a liar and us both for Godless sinners is completely hidden.

“Alright, men,” Lestrade interrupts their guffawing, “look sharp, now.” The men settle almost immediately and Holmes inclines his dark head just a fraction in a rare and quite generous gesture of acknowledgement.

“Now,” Holmes intones seriously as he comes around behind me, “I am a criminal.” Even though I am expecting the knife, the bright flash of the blade’s edge in the light sets my stomach fluttering. “I am going to attempt to prevent you rendering aid to Doctor Watson, by any means necessary.” The steely tone of his voice gives the men pause, stripping their demeanour of any lingering light-heartedness. Hopkins has shifted automatically into a defensive stance, and at Lestrade’s look of approval the others are quick to follow suit.

Holmes sets the cool steel to my bare throat, just above my collar. I look to him for reassurance and when he meets my gaze I find that steadfast ironic humour lurking just below the surface and, to my surprise, a dark glimmer of arousal. In a spectacular (and inconvenient) display of reflexive response, the cold twist of apprehension in my stomach becomes a melting heat. A slight twist of his dark brows tells me that my reaction has not gone unnoticed.

“Alright,” he continues loudly, as if nothing is amiss, “Hopkins, come at me.” Hopkins’ face lights up and he takes an eager step forward. Holmes’s pose is outwardly defensive, but there is no tension in his long limbs when he bends over me.

Hopkins approach is steady but sadly predictable and in a few short moments Holmes has him in a half-nelson and is waving his knife warningly at the other men. One by one they come at him and he puts each one down on the carpet. While they re-group in a rather surly manner in the far corner of the room, Holmes, under the guise of tightening the ropes, opens my shirt cuffs. During the ensuing whispered discussion of further strategy, he runs his index finger up and down the inside of my right wrist. His freshly shaven cheek is level with my own and the smell of him; tobacco and spice and solvents, is almost overwhelming. My breath comes fast and my skin feels hot and tight and for the first time in my life I wish fervently that Holmes were far, far away.

The second round has little more to recommend it than the first and after half an hour or so Lestrade is slumped in his chair smoking a cigar, watching with glazed eyes as Holmes expounds on the various types of violence he has done to each of his no-longer-willing students.

Eventually, a tall, swarthy Constable by name of Smythe manages to slip under Holmes’s knife and disarm him with a victorious cry. His fellows give a round of applause and Holmes announces the exercise a success. Lestrade’s relief is obvious.

“My thanks, Mr Holmes,” he says politely, and then, less politely “I dare say they’ll think twice before back-talking you in the future.” Holmes shakes his head slowly.

“Not quite the lesson I intended to teach, but I shall consider it a boon nevertheless. Now, Inspector,” he says coolly, “if you have no objections, I believe that the good Doctor and I will be on our way.”

“None whatsoever, gentleman,” Lestrade confirms cheerfully, “a very good evening to you, Mr Holmes, and to you, Doctor Watson,” I nod my head ruefully and he smiles a little wider “Nothing to worry about, Doctor, I’m sure he’ll let you loose eventually.” The Inspector is still chuckling at his own joke as he makes his way down the hall.

“I would not be quite so sanguine about the matter, my dear fellow,” Holmes murmurs against my ear. His fingers return to my wrists and I bite back a groan. “I find this vision of you rather appealing.” He presses his hips tight against my leg as he reaches for the end of the rope and the firm outline of his cock quite eloquently illustrates the point. “Although,” he continues in a low voice “there are obvious advantages to removing the gag.”

He drags one finger from my wrists all the way up my spine to the nape of my neck. My heart pounds and my eyelids fall closed then open again with a jerk when I realise what is happening. We are afforded some privacy by virtue of being behind the open door, but the fact remains that we are in the heart of Scotland Yard _surrounded by Police_ and if only my pulse would slow and my treacherous body would calm itself I could explain to Holmes just how precarious our position is. My eyes are slipping closed again when he removes the gag with a flourish and stands up, his hands falling as suddenly from me as if he had been scalded.

“Quite right, dear boy” he mutters, “quite right, indeed.”

With a final appreciative look, Holmes turns back to tidying his villain’s _accoutrements_. The rope is loose enough now for me to shake free of it and after a moment’s thought I wind it neatly and stow it in my bag. The room is warm but Holmes slips his overcoat on and when he looks pointedly at my trousers I blushingly do the same. The heat and friction make the walk through the dimmed corridors of the Yard unbearable and it is with a sigh of relief that I tumble into the waiting cab.

Holmes’s eyes are silver and wicked in the light from the passing streetlamps and so hypnotising that I do not notice his hand when it steals over to caress my thigh. What little quarter I had gained from the cool air and the necessary distance between us is lost when he moves straight for my flies. My arousal returns immediately, all the more intense and aching for having been denied. I let my head fall back against the seat and surrender to the insistent motion of his fingers, thrusting helplessly as he presses harder against the dampened fabric.

I lift my hands to his face, whether to caress him or to stop him I will never know because at that moment he pulls his hand from me and his other comes down over my wrists.

The metallic _click_ of the darbies echoes in the tiny space and for a full minute I cannot comprehend its meaning, then the weight on my wrists makes sense, if not the reason behind it. Without a word, Holmes takes my shackled wrists and raises them over my head, pressing them into the back wall of the cab. My pulse beats frantic time against the cold steel as his lips descend upon my neck in a long, sucking bite. They linger there for long, airless minutes until he pulls suddenly away, sitting up and throwing my discarded overcoat over my hands, which without his support have dropped heavily into my lap. When the door swings open a heartbeat later I understand that we have arrived at Baker Street.

Holmes pushes me ahead of him up the stairs to the sitting room, hurried but not ungentle. When the door is locked behind us he throws my coat aside and pulls me to his bedroom, walking carefully backwards with his shining eyes fixed on the cuffs. He lights the lamp and circles me like a predator, daring every now and then a light touch to my fingers, my wrists, or the steel that bracelets them. His eyes are dark now, and his pale face is flushed.

He strips me with shaking hands and then with a sweating palm to my chest, forces me down to the bed. My hands fly instinctively out to balance a sharp biting pain reminds me of my bonds. Holmes’s straining cock is level with my eyes and when I lean forward to mouth it through his trousers he lets out a harsh, choked breath.

“Turn around,” he growls, reaching for his buttons, “upon your hands and knees.” As I obey, I see him from the corner of my eye draw himself out with a long twisting stroke of his fingers. I kneel carefully, balancing precariously on my bound hands; my hot skin tingling in the cold air and my cock straight, hard and heavy between my legs. There comes a scraping sound of a drawer and a clink of glass and I know that my wait will not be a long one.

His fingers are warm and slick when they enter me and they slide straight in. He curves them diabolically and the lightening strike of pleasure wrings a low cry from my dry lips. Two slim fingers and then three, scissoring and stroking until I am shivering and sweating and pleading. He withdraws.

Holmes’s first thrust is slow and measured but all too soon his oiled fingers are gripping my hips and pulling me roughly back against him. His breaths are shallow and ragged and his body moves desperately against mine, faster and harder and deeper until he remembers himself. His rhythm slows for a moment and slips an arm around my waist.

His fingers tighten around my cock, sliding once, twice and then I come to glory with a whispered curse and a roaring rush of blood in my ears. Distantly, I can feel the heat of his seed and the shuddering of his wiry frame where he is hunched over me. He pulls away with a sigh and before I can wonder he is stretched out beside me, a blackened key between his fingers.

“You know, Holmes,” I say later, while he is salving and bandaging the matching raw, red marks that circle my wrists, “I did bring the rope home. You might have asked, and saved us the bother.”

“I might have,” he agrees with darkened eyes, “but I thought we might save that for my conjuring show.”

“Next time, then, I’ll remind you to bring a topper.”


End file.
